


Red & White

by Naemi



Category: Body and Blood - clipping. (Music Video)
Genre: Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen, Minor Mindfuck, Non-Graphic Violence, Serial Killers, implied childhood abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8886427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naemi/pseuds/Naemi
Summary: As the young man waiting to be transformed into the art he thinks he already is enters the room, she stubs out her smoke and rises.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tristesses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/gifts).



 

_He's_ only a voice in her head, a whisper that's been with her for as long as she can remember: a confidant at first, then, much later, a partner in crime. By now, _he's_ as familiar to her as are her own features. _His_ murmurs, velvet smooth, accompany her all the time. Although she knows her mind invented _him_ to comfort her during the endless ordeal that was her childhood, _he_ feels much more real than _his_ lack of _his_ own physical form implies.

In a way, she gives him a physicality: she wears the red on her lips and nails, on her head and heels, as homage to _him_. Considering what their little liaison is about nowadays, the combination with the crisp, white cotton she prefers is almost a piece of art in itself.

As her fingertips glide over her tools in an almost fluid movement, the sharp, smooth metal gleams in the overhead lights as if the trail of her touch stoked the embers of a long-forgotten fire. Pursing her ruby red lips, she stares down at her friends of stainless-steel for a thundering heartbeat, herald of the thrill that awaits her. Then, she nearly slams her briefcase shut. As she clicks the locks into place, _his_ excitement swirls in her mind and pools in her belly. She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes just yet: Only when she created a piece of art, beholds its perfection, does she allow herself a moment of true joy.

She lights a smoke and inhales deeply, not because she likes it, but because she knows _he_ does. _He_ thinks it's sexy when her full lips close around the butt of a cigarette, and so do most men; it's yet another tool, in its own way as deadly as her favorites, but it doesn't matter. After all the projects she's worked on, all the canvases she filled with new life, she almost feels invincible. Now that she has shed the fear and pain of her old life like a worn-out coat, she finds nothing really hurts her anymore.

Not even _he_ who is under her skin, whose anger has the potential to run deep in the veins where it clots the blood and deep in the body where it calcifies the bones, has that much power over her like they did when she was little.

As the young man waiting to be transformed into the art he thinks he already is enters the room, she stubs out her smoke and rises. As a blank canvas without a name, the model waits for the strokes of a metallic brush to fill him with an unknown life, give him an unknown purpose.

Her hands tremble ever-so-slightly as she slips on her gloves. They're smooth on her skin, comforting, but most importantly, they'll avoid her staining her own work during any part of the process.

While the flashlight dances over slickly oiled skin, _he_ whispers forbidden promises that make her breath hitch. By the time she finally runs her fingers over her model, she's soaked with anticipation and at the same time burning with the fire of both _his_ urges and her own.

She feels _him_ reach out, slowly seizing hold of her in the one way _he_ was designed to do. The part of her that didn't know control for years loathes to give it up again while another part, the one to whom _his_ mere word is a revered command promising safety, desperately awaits this moment. It's in losing herself that she seems to find herself: her inner strength, her true nature. _Him_ coming to life through her and her serving as _his_ avatar brings an utterly fulfilling sense of ultimate purpose and power that pulses through her veins.

_He_ reaches out and she lets go. As _he_ lays _their_ canvas on the ground, her consciousness shifts and slowly slips until she is _his_ voice and utters _his_ words out of her own mouth. The naked man shivers just like her whole body shakes, only that she reads a hint of dread on his face while she knows her own reveals nothing—and then, she's gone, reduced to a lingering presence within herself, a witness to the art that her heart desires but her hands don't find the courage to create.

Muffled screams and muted pleas mix and mingle as red and white and red again spills over skin first, then muscles and sinews and raw, exposed flesh where _he_ guides _their_ hands with the precision of a surgeon. Here a cut, there a slice: all comes together as the groundwork for something even more profound as _they choose_ tool after tool. _They_ move with _their_ eyes closed, like dancers in the dark who need not see to find _their_ rhythm or to draw from their passion deep within.

_Their_ heartbeat races so fast now that it borders on painful: It thunders against their ribcage as they crack bone after bone that's in the way and reveal more flesh and more tissue, remove layer upon layer of the human mask disguising the ultimate form they seek.

Moans, cries, copper stench, looming insanity—through all of this, _they_ proceed with never faltering movements, and when _they're_ done after what seems an eternity, _they_ sit back on _their_ hurting knees. In awe, _they_ draw in every detail of _their_ beautiful creation, put on display for only _them_ to see, splayed out on the ground like a symbol designed for the anointed one alone, for no one else would understand.

_They_ wipe their mouth and smear _their_ lipstick without realizing. _Their_ frantic breath slows, becomes erratic as the aftermath rolls through _their_ body and wipes out everything but this holy moment.

_He_ laughs. _She_ cries. Both is in bliss.

And then, as silence falls over the room and the end of the night draws near, _they_ wipe the blood from _their_ hands and tools, slip out of _their_ gloves and back into _their_ high heels, and with a rapid _clickclickclick_ preserve _their_ achievement for all eternity before they turn _their_ backs on the scene.

With every step that separates _them_ from their art, _he_ retreats a little further, until _he's_ but smooth velvet and the promises of freedom in her head again.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **tristesses** through **Yuletide 2016**.
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful **Jacie** , who also made sure that all characters were returned unharmed.
> 
> [Visit my LJ-community [Bunny Bash](http://bunnybash.livejournal.com) to leave me a prompt at any time.]
> 
> [Feedback is love.]


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